


Phone Call

by Sampika



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post series 4, tiny bit of parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-10-03 07:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10238528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sampika/pseuds/Sampika
Summary: When Sherlock is helping Mycroft with a job in Russia, things go wrong. Very wrong.  Here are Sherlock's last thoughts and actions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I'm not really sure how Sherlock got into the mess he's in or why, this was just something my brain cooked up at 1 in the morning last night. Let's just pretend Sherlock somehow decided to help with some MI6 work, okay? Okay. I'm still unsure if there will be a chapter 2 for this, so keep an eye on this if you want? I can't make any promises though.
> 
> Also when I was typing in tags for this, the additional tags bar disappeared for some reason. I'm not entirely sure how that happened, but I still needed to add some tags...

Sherlock hissed in pain as he clutched his hand to his abdomen, the warmth of blood soaking over his fingers from the wound. The pain throbbed through his body, causing him to grimace. The wound was too deep, there was too much blood. So much of it was already pooling on the ground around his thighs, soaking into the half rotted floor boards of the abandoned cabin he was now certain would be his grave.

He hadn’t ever expected to live very long, but he never thought his end would come in the wide stretch of wilderness that was the mountainous expanse of Russia, alone and bleeding out from a stab wound he should have seen coming.

He should have seen it coming.

But his thoughts had been on John, and Rosie. A thought flickered through his mind; maybe he shouldn’t have let himself get attached all those years ago. Sentimentality was a burden and a disadvantage. It allowed him to let himself love another, and as the saying goes, love hurts.

But that of course wasn’t true. John had given his life the spark it needed to keep going. If it hadn’t been for John, he would have died years ago, just another victim of the serial killer cabbie. Or he would have found himself at the end of a Chinese smuggler’s gun. Or maybe he would have gone down with Moriarty that night at the pool.

By now he was starting feel lightheaded from blood loss. Pain gnawed at his gut, and he wished desperately for some morphine. And some stitches. And a doctor. His doctor. John.

Even if his phone had a signal – which it wouldn’t, not this far from any city or town – Mycroft would be unable to get medical help to him in time. It would take a helicopter at least an hour to get to his coordinates, and at least ten more minutes before they could get paramedics on the ground to stabilize him, and _then_ they’d have to get to the nearest suitable hospital. Sherlock would be long dead before they ever even found him.

Suddenly his phone rang, the shrill noise very out of place in the old cabin. How was he even getting a signal? Was there a cell tower he hadn’t known about?

Shaking his head, he switched hands over the wound to fish his phone out of his coat pocket, not giving a damn about the blood getting on the screen. It was… John. Of all people, it was John. He couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have his last conversation with, but the thought of leaving John and Rosie all alone, leaving John alone with only a phone call to give his last words… He couldn’t do that to him again, could he?

He let the phone ring. He let it ring, and ring, and ring, until it finally stopped and the only sound left was Sherlock’s ragged breathing and the gusts of wind outside the cabin, leaking in through the walls in places that had fallen apart or been chewed away by insects.

Regret came immediately afterwards. He should have answered. He should have talked to John, he should have said his goodbyes. That was his chance, and he’d missed it. He stared at the bloody phone screen, shaking fingers hovering over the redial button.

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he pressed the button and brought the phone to his ear.

It was agony listening to it ring all over again. But it was an agony he endured, if only because it would hurt John so much more if he had to find out about Sherlock’s death from Mycroft.

_“Sherlock?”_ John’s voice met his ear, and the detective nearly burst into tears at the sound. That lovely voice, that voice he would only ever hear again right now. _“Are you alright? Mycroft had said you’d be back hours ago, but he called me just now and said he’d lost signal to the GPS in your phone. Where are you, are you okay?”_

Sherlock couldn’t answer at first, he just wanted to listen to John’s voice. Could he tell him what was happening to him? Should he? He made the split second decision to lie, to take the coward’s way out that he had always chosen for the past seven years. Because telling the truth, telling John that he was alone and bleeding to death in the middle of nowhere meant talking about emotions, feelings. And he hadn’t quite figured out how to say all the things he’d wanted to before.

“I’m… fine. Got caught,” he paused, trying to reign in control of his voice, which was hoarse and shaky and threatening to break, “…caught by one of the agents. Had to lead them away from Mycroft’s meet-up place where he was going to have a car ready to pick me up.” Sherlock turned his head away from the phone and gasped for breath, fighting back the pain and grimacing.

_“But you are okay, right? Tell me you’ll be home soon.”_ John asked, a hint of uncertainty and worry lacing his voice. He could tell something was off. Sherlock cursed to himself; John wasn’t supposed to be able to tell. But then, John is a doctor.

“I’ll be back, in a few hours. I promise.” His voice shook, and a tear finally broke over his eyelid and slid down his cheek.

_“Sherlock, what’s wrong? Please tell me what’s wrong,”_ John was clearly worried now. Sherlock never promised anything. This phone call wasn’t going how Sherlock expected it to.

“Nothing’s wrong… I’ll see you and Rosie when I get back…” His voice was getting fainter, weaker. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his eardrums, and lights danced along the edges of his vision.

_“You never talk like this, what happened?”_ No answer followed. _“Sherlock?!”_

He couldn’t do it anymore. He had to tell him, but, how? And with so little time left…

“I’m so sorry, John… So sorry…”

_“What do you mean? Why are you saying this?”_

“Because I never told you before,” Sherlock wheezed, his body fighting to keep itself conscious just a little longer, “I…”

_“Sherlock?” No answer. “Sherlock, please!”_

But the detective’s arm drooped to the floor, phone clattering as it hit the floorboards. With his last remaining moments of consciousness, Sherlock simply stared at the phone. Hazy eyes blinked, trying to discern the image of it lying on the ground, but each blink made it blurrier. Darker. The pain in his side had gone numb. Or was that just from shock setting in?

He never finished his sentence. Those last two words hung on his lips, but he didn’t have the strength to say them out loud, or even at a whisper.

The words remained unspoken as he closed his eyes, and let darkness engulf him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness around Sherlock was nearly suffocating, yet, calming, Calling. Drawing him in.

The darkness around Sherlock was nearly suffocating, yet, calming, Calling. Drawing him in. It was so dark, why was it so dark? Oh. His eyes were closed. Of course. Why were they closed? Sherlock tried to remember, but... his brain was sluggish. He couldn't _think._ The halls of his mind palace were silent, and walking through them felt like trying to walk through a river of tar.

He needed to wake up.

Sherlock tried to open his eyes, quickly finding that he couldn't quite work out how to do it. His eyelids were so, so heavy. They would not open.

There was a subtle feeling of coldness around him, and a dull throb that might have been pain, but he couldn't be certain. Everything around him felt as though he was numbed. He couldn't move, couldn't think.

Why couldn't he think?

Frustrated, he tried again to open his eyes, straining as his body fought against him. His eyes still didn't open. The attempt left him exhausted, and he let the darkness lull him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

A muffled noise pierced into the calm recesses of his mind, a new and very unwelcome distraction in the darkness. Couldn't the world just let him sleep? How dare - there were more sounds. Talking? What were they talking about? The voice - voices? - was distorted, fluctuating between quiet and loud, deep tones and normal; as though he were underwater. Was it John?

The memories came rushing back to him, slamming into his head so painfully he was half convinced he heard himself whimper. _Love you._ The words he never said echoed through his mind palace. John. Where was he? He had to tell him...

But the darkness pulled at him again, sticky and drawing him into it's embrace. But he had to hold on. For John.

 

* * *

 

"Sherlock?" The voice was clearer now - though still muffled, diluted - tugging him out of the darkness's hold. That was Mycroft, wasn't it? What was his brother doing in Russia?

Another sound chopped through the silence, the buffeting of wind through a helicopter's blades. At least, he thought that was what it was.

He tried desperately to open his eyes again, but his body refused to comply. It wasn't fair.

Sherlock fell into the blackness again, too weak to keep himself conscious longer.

 

* * *

 

"John..." Where was John? He needed John, needed him by his side.

Sherlock felt a needle prick his forearm. IV? Impossible, wasn't he still in the cabin? No. The helicopter. Mycroft found him. Right?

A woman spoke, though he couldn't discern what she said. The voice sounded familiar, somehow. Who..?

 

* * *

 

It was still dark when he could think again. He still couldn't open his eyes, couldn't move. He had no strength. Everything was quiet, this time. There was no talking, no helicopter, no woman sticking an IV in his arm.

He found himself slipping back into the darkness of his own accord, he was no longer being pulled in by it. It was easier, quicker.

 

* * *

 

There was talking again, but it was finally clear enough to be understood.

"We cannot say exactly when the patient might wake up. Normally when they go into a comatose state, it only lasts for a couple of days at most."

"It has been more than 'a couple of days.'"

"I am sorry, but there is a chance that your brother might not wake up, Mr. Holmes. As of now he only has four points on the Glasgow coma scale. We can-"

"Do whatever you can to help him. Inform me of any changes."

Might not wake up? How dare they think so little of him. He'd been stabbed, it wasn't as if he had been shot in the head and had a bullet lodged in his skull.

He would wake up. That would show them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. I'm on spring break now, so I'll have more time for writing. Also, happy (one day early) Easter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! I've been super busy with finals at school, but luckily that's over now. And I've also been busy with a Merlin fic I'm writing, I kinda got distracted by that for while. It's about 50 pages long right now, so if you're in the Merlin fandom, I guess you can look forward to that soon? But by soon, I mean in a few months, probably. It's going to be really long (like, 40k+ words), and I don't want to start posting chapters until I have it all finished, just so I don't end up abandoning it.
> 
> To be honest, I really lost all traction with this fic and had no idea what I was going to do with it. This last chapter was kinda a pain to write. :(

"I think he's waking up!"

"Someone tell Mycroft, will you?"

"On it, sir."

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

"Mr. Holmes, you got here quick."

"How is he?"

"He is showing signs of responsiveness, sir. This is the most progress he's made all week. His brain activity is returning to normal; he is waking up."

"Sherlock. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Slowly, his eyelids parted, and the familiar kaleidoscope of silvers, blues, and greens could see the people around him.

"Welcome back, brother mine."

 

* * *

 

A diluted afternoon sun shone through closed blinds from the sole window along the walls, casting the room with a dim, pale blue-white light. The atmosphere of the room was just that; pale blue. It was supposed to be a calming color, they said. The floor was a tiled pattern of white and blue, the walls were a soft pastel grey-blue. The chairs near his bed had teal cushions. Everything in the room was either blue, grey, or white. Dull.

It was completely silent, save for the beeping of the heart monitor and Sherlock's steady breathing. It was more like white noise rather than a disturbance - easily drowned out and suffocated by the absence of other sound. The silence hung in the room like a fog, persistent and sticking around long past the time when it's considered comfortable. The standard hospital gown and bed sheets scratched at his skin, uncomfortable and too different from his own soft bed. He hated it here. Calming, they said. The room felt somber, cold, empty.

Sherlock picked absently at the medical band on his wrist. It was so _boring_ here. And Mycroft wouldn't even allow anyone to see him. He insisted he wait until he got home. His brother wouldn't even let him call John. He said he'd already done so, and informed him that Sherlock was alright. But, why? It was things like that that made Sherlock resent his older brother.

As though just thinking his name was enough to summon said brother, Mycroft strode through the door, file in hand. Sherlock groaned.

"Good evening to you too, brother mine." Mycroft replied, lips pressed together in a thin line of disapproval. "I hope you understand just _why_ I won't allow visitors in, and why you are still in a private hospital."

"Really, Mycroft, I doubt there are enough remaining people in Moriarty's web that still want me dead. It's been _three years,_ they have better things to do with their lives than linger on a madman's obsession. Still not sure why you sent me back out there in the first place," Sherlock scoffed.

His brother merely gave him one of those looks, that scowl that Mycroft made whenever Sherlock had a valid point and Mycroft was bitter about loosing an argument with his baby brother. "I had reason to believe they were back to targeting you, Sherlock. I would have thought that you would have been pleased with the heads up, what with John and Rosie living at 221B."

"I would have, if _you_ had done something about it rather then send _me_ after them, and nearly caused my death in the process. You do realise the British government has their own secret service, don't you? I am not your lackey or your agent," Sherlock spit out, folding his arms over his chest (and immediately regretting the decision, as the action tugged on his still healing abdomen). Mycroft let out a sigh of exasperation.

"Sometimes my options are limited. I do not have as much power in the government as you seem to be keen on believing, brother," Mycroft replied. When no retaliation came, he switched topics. "Anyways, what I originally came in here to tell you was that you are free to go back home now. These are your discharge papers." He gestured to the file he carried under his arm.

From there, things seemed to speed by. A nurse came to Sherlock's room to help him change into his clothes without causing more damage to his wound. He was then escorted out of the room to an elevator, then out a side door of the building and into one of Mycroft's sleek black cars that pulled up to the curb just before he limped over to it. The ride flew by in a whirl of passing cars, jaywalking pedestrians, and fleeting sections of brick buildings whizzing by. None of the streets or locations looked familiar to Sherlock, but it had been clear since he woke up that he hadn't been in London. London had a different feel to it.

Eventually, the streets and buildings gave way to grass and trees. An hour or several - Sherlock had fallen asleep at some point, though he was loathe to admit it - crawled by, the sun starting to sink to the horizon line and setting the sky awash in shades of orange, pink, yellow, and red. And then the scenery shifted to something more familiar. London loomed in the car's path, the famous clock tower of Big Ben silhouetted against the fiery sunset. The growing night quickly passed into streetlamps and headlights, and Sherlock was back in the city. He was back home.

The car came to a stop outside 221B, and a quick glance up at the windows told him that John was home, probably halfway through cooking dinner for himself and Rosie. Sherlock extracted himself from the car, waving away the driver when he offered to help. Wincing, he slammed to door closed and turned back to the door, fishing out the keys from his coat pocket. His heart hammered in his ears as he approached. Why was he so bloody nervous? John might ask about their last phone call, but it would be easy enough to brush it off and dismiss it. The coward's way out, once again. Whatever courage he had mustered back in the cabin as he lay dying, it was gone now.

Fumbling hands caused the keys to miss the keyhole on the first two tries, but Sherlock finally managed to unlock the door and step inside. He was greeted with the scent of spaghetti sauce wafting down from upstairs. He was right then, John was cooking - a simple meal, for John was never a very good cook. Quietly, Sherlock climbed the seventeen stairs to the flat, pausing in the door frame. In the sitting room, Rosie sat in the child's chair strapped to the cushion of John's arm chair. Several toys and a blanket were strewn about the floor, taking the place of the usual clutter of books and papers and whatever experiments Sherlock might have worked on in the past. A slight humming emanated from the kitchen, and Sherlock looked over to see John, back to the door, stirring the contents of a pot on the stove with a wooden spoon.

John turned a watchful eye back to the chair, keeping an eye on Rosie, when he froze. The doctor turned quickly to see Sherlock standing in the door frame, and suddenly he wished he'd thought of what to say during the long car ride back.

Relief seemed to wash over John's face, erasing faint lines of worry that Sherlock had barely even registered until they were already gone. "Sherlock! Mycroft didn't tell me you were coming home today," John said, placing the spoon on the counter and moving to stand in front of Sherlock. A small smile graced his features. "I'm glad you're okay."

"As am I," Sherlock replied, returning a smile. He wasn't sure what else to say to John. Should he bring up the phone call? Would John? Or would John go back to cooking and watching Rosie, and their life could go on as it always had? Or would he say something, and in turn change their lives forever - whether it be for good or ill?

"When you and I last spoke," John started after a short pause, glancing at the floor, "You said you were sorry, that there was something you never told me."

The second option, then. How was he supposed to respond to this? Sherlock had never had the courage to tell him outright. _I love you._ The words were so simple, so easy, and yet he couldn't bring himself to just tell him. A moment's panic seeped into his mind, and he gulped.

"It's nothing. Not important anymore," Sherlock lied. He looked anywhere but at John, finding the scuffed floorboards far more interesting than he ever would have thought possible.

"It is. Or you wouldn't have tried to tell me when you thought you were going to die."

John stared at him for what felt like an eternity, as though he could see through Sherlock's silence to the truth hidden underneath. But Sherlock kept his mouth shut, letting his lack of response do the talking for him. The detective just didn't know _how_ to say the words that lingered in his mind. He had spent so long keeping it hidden, buried, that it felt unnatural to let the words see the light. They may have been repeated in his mind many times before, so many times that it seemed to play on a broken record until he couldn't remember anything else, but not once had the words passed his lips.

It scared him. What if he did say it, what then? Would John be angry? Would things between them become awkward and out of place? Would he reciprocate the feelings Sherlock had spent so long hiding? There were too many outcomes, too many possibilities, and so many of them were all negative. It was easier to just be friends, to pretend that he didn't spend hours each night thinking about how soft John's lips might be against his own or how it would feel to have their bodies pressed together in a cuddle late at night during one of John's ridiculous marathons of James Bond movies. So he couldn't tell him how he truly felt. There was too much at risk. If he lost John's friendship, who knows what would happen to him. And yet...

There was so much to gain, as well. If John understood, if he somehow, some way, loved him _back_ , it would be the single most outstanding thing to ever happen in his life, next to meeting John in the first place. He could know what it was like to love someone and be loved in return, to wake up every morning wrapped in each others arms, to press all those little kisses he had spent years imagining to John's head or cheek or lips whenever he felt like it, to know that he wouldn't die alone. He could help John raise Rosie as his daughter - not that he wasn't helping now, but it wasn't like she was his own daughter. He was merely another guardian figure, not a father.

John's sigh pulled Sherlock from his thoughts. "If you won't tell me, fine. I can't make you. I'm just glad you're back, Sherlock." He said the last sentence with such softness, such fondness, it nearly made Sherlock rethink deciding not to tell him.

With that, the doctor turned back to the living room, approaching Rosie and squatting at eye level in front of her, holding out one of her stuffed bears. Sherlock stayed put on the threshold of the doorway, watching as she took the animal in her little hands, fingers clenching around the fabric and shaking it through the air. John's face lit up in one of his amazing, beautiful, sunny smiles as Rosie giggled, babbling on in the incoherent chatter of children her age that only made sense to her. John whispered something to her about getting her some dinner, then stood and ruffled the tufts of hair on her head, returning to the kitchen and rummaging in the fridge for a premade container of mashed vegetables that she tended to favor over other foods. Sherlock felt very much like a spectator, left on the outside edge of a domestic life that he never knew he wanted.

And suddenly, it was so, so, simple.

"I love you."

John stiffened, and Sherlock held his breath.

John slowly closed the fridge and gently set own the container. He approached Sherlock then, the look in his eyes as unreadable and unpredictable as the ocean they so closely resembled. An eternity passed them by in the span of seconds, and for a heart shattering moment, Sherlock thought he had made a terrible mistake.

And then John kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending is a bit short and rushed, but I like it better that way. Leaves more to the imagination! (And also I really have no clue how to write romance >.>)


End file.
